Ethel Waters induced “Stormy Weather” in 1933 at the Cotton Club, an oasis of prosperity in Depression- era Harlem where lavish all-black revues entertained well-heeled white patrons. Incongruously, the lyrics depict a world where “life is bare,” with “gloom and misery everywhere.” Could it be a topical Depression was in the air even for the black entertainment elite and their affluent ofay clientele?

If you reject our pseudo-sociological conjecture that a popular song might reflect the national mood, consider this: relatively dormant after the Depression eased, “Stormy Weather” was immediately revived when the U.S. entered World War II. Mere coincidence?

For the metaphysically disinclined, “Stormy Weather” can be appreciated strictly as a torch song; hear, for example, Nancy Kelly’s 1997 version. Or set aside the lyrics, and “Stormy Weather” works as pure melody, as demonstrated by our five wordless instrumental tracks.

Whatever its format, “Stormy Weather”—recorded hundreds of times by a cross-section of artists over a span of decades—gives us a picture of jazz reinventing itself. Not only do different generations reinterpret this song, but sometimes an individual artist does too, for example Charles Mingus in 1954 and 1960.

No other Jazz Age singer rivaled her versatility. Combining the tony diction of London's posh Mayfair salons (although she actually grew up in Philadelphia poverty) with gospel sincerity and an ever-lurking earthy inflection, Ethel Waters exercised an unmatched artistic range. With the savvy dramaturgy of a seasoned stage actress, Miss Waters didn't simply sing a song, she enacted a minidrama replete with theatrical flourishes. Here, as she concludes, we want to rush the stage crying "Brava!" and strew bouquets at her feet. In 2003, when the Grammy folks enshrined this track in their Hall of Fame, they got it right.

Of the 1930s male vocal groups who sang Negro spirituals in a jazzy style called Jubilee, the most successful was Virginia's Golden Gate Quartet. Expanding their traditional repertoire, the GGC here universalizes the plight of a lovesick woman ("Since my man and I ain’t together") by cleverly changing five words: "Can't get my poor self together." Listeners may be reminded of the contemporaneous Mills Brothers—especially by the vocally imitated wah-wah "trumpet" solo—but the GGC spent more time in church than at the barbershop. If you doubt that gospel + jazz = doo-wop, check out this track.

Eight days after Pearl Harbor, the breathtaking Lena Horne correctly forecasts long-term war clouds. The following year, in Hollywood's Stormy Weather (1943), an all-black musical biopic of dancer Bill "Bojangles" Robinson, Horne co-starred and reprised the title song. Lip-synching at her apartment window opposite an El Train station, Lena misses her man so much she's oblivious to a virtual hurricane battering Harlem. The role made her a star, and "Stormy Weather" became her signature. Here, Ned Freeman's Harlem- Meets-Hollywood arrangement is a washout, discordantly mixing Ellington-style jungle growls with Vine Street violins. Still, Lena's star shines undimmed through the clouds.

Erroll Garner didn't invent octave tremolos in jazz—fellow Pittsburgher Earl Hines gets credit for that. But Garner came up with an instantly recognizable application for them as part of his uniquely rippling style, sounding for all the world as though playing the piano underwater. Garner could execute these tremolos tirelessly at any tempo. But since, notwithstanding his irrepressible wit, Erroll was at heart a romantic, his tremolos were most gallantly tremulous in ballads. While his "Stormy Weather" isn't immaculate, Garner's art was more about setting the right mood than getting every note right. Here his mood is right as rain.

Possessing neither the theatricality of Ethel Waters nor the stateliness of Lena Horne, Billie Holiday eschews "Stormy Weather" as a torch song, and instead makes it a saloon song. You might fear that Billie's quarter-to-three, no-one-in-the-place-except-you-and-me barstool confidential would detract from the lyrics; with such a distinctive artist, a mere song risks becoming more about her than about its intended subject. Think again. Nobody ever served "Stormy Weather" better than Lady Day, who affords a whole new appreciation of Ted Koehler's words. Songs are a form of storytelling. And jazz never had a wiser, more believable storyteller than Billie Holiday.

Until the late 1940s, John LaPorta coulda been a contender. That's when he hooked up with Lennie Tristano. Talk about a one-way ticket to Palookaville! In 1954, LaPorta emerged from Tristano's training camp to spar with heavyweight Charles Mingus, then championing jazz Abstract Expressionism. LaPorta's modernistic arrangement of "Stormy Weather," featuring Thad Jones with eerie reverb and a lugubrious cello, undermines our expectations, using bitonality to create an illusion of suspended gravitation. This scheme, particularly applied to a familiar standard instead of an original composition, demonstrates how experimental New York jazzmen were half a decade before Ornette Coleman blew into town. Incidentally, the album title's "Jazzical" connoted jazz + classical two years before Gunther Schuller coined the artier Third Stream.

If any jazzman's psyche epitomized "Stormy Weather," it was Charles Mingus's. Which makes this track's tranquility all the more surprising. Of course, Mingus loved to pull the rug out from under people. Here, at solemn tempo, he calmly supports longtime friend Eric Dolphy in one of the all-time great alto sax solos, and incidentally contributes a deeply lyrical bass solo himself. Yet as compellingly as he plays, Mingus's primary contribution is as bandleader. Not since Ethel Waters introduced "Stormy Weather" in 1933 had the song received such a theatrical staging. And, considering its starkness, Mingus's production is if anything more impressive.

Hearing Etta James belt it, you wonder whether such grandes dames as Ethel Waters and Lena Horne could truly convey the essence of "Stormy Weather." Backed by strings and 1950s-style rock 'n' roll piano triplets, Etta cuts to the quick. From start to finish, her gutsy, rafter-rattling down-home voice grabs us, shakes us and won't let go. Like Bessie Smith, Etta doesn't so much sing as preach to us. And nobody leaves her sermons as a nonbeliever. Oh, some old-time front-parlor backsliding gents may prefer more compliant women. But, assuming such ladies still exist, where's the fun in that?

Sometimes to see something clearly, you have to momentarily look away. We tested this once while practicing our Zen archery, and frankly the results were not altogether satisfactory. Our neighbor still bears a grudge about his plate-glass window. André Previn's "Stormy Weather," though, suggests the principle may be true. Moonlighting from his day job as an MGM staff composer, Previn doesn't so much reinterpret the song as recompose it à la Gershwin's Prelude No. 2 (1926), with echoes of Negro spirituals. Far from demeaning "Stormy Weather," this momentary distraction refreshes our insight into Harold Arlen's venerable song. A blindfolded bull's-eye.

Such eminent balladeers as Lester Young, Ben Webster and Dexter Gordon always looked to a song's lyrics as key to its interpretation. But Woody Shaw (formerly Dexter's sideman) is content to ignore the words and savor the tune. It's hard to fault his approach. Shaw's straight-ahead, medium-tempo "Stormy Weather" pairs his angelic open trumpet with Steve Turre's down-&-dirty plunger-muted trombone, the two complementing each other as naturally as saint and sinner, yin and yang, Ben & Gerry. (Why, Ben Webster and Gerry Mulligan, of course. Who did you think we meant?) His life was beclouded by stormy weather, but—Lord willing—Woody Shaw now strolls in the sun.

Who knew? "Stormy Weather" in Buffalo! Resisting the temptation to deconstruct and recompose a 64- year-old standard, Nancy Kelly meets it on its own terms. Admittedly, such plantation-era lines as "can’t get my poor self together" and "my man and I ain’t together"—already antiquated when introduced at the Cotton Club in 1933—pose a special challenge for a modern-day white woman. But Kelly's extra touches, such as a bluesy "gloom and misery everywhere," the quietly emphatic redundancy of "myself, my poor self," or bouncy "Baby, don't you know I can’t go on," legitimize an utterly convincing performance. Lake- effective platinum-blonde soul.

In the mid-1990s, Debbie Harry picked up The Jazz Passengers for two CDs, and in 2002 gave them another lift for this track on a Harold Arlen tribute album. She didn't, however, quit her day jobs, still touring (in her early 60s) as Blondie's lead singer, pursuing a solo career and continuing HIV/AIDS activism. In contrast to other rockers (e.g., Rod Stewart), whose jazz detours have been discreetly middle-of-the-road, Harry's trips with The Jazz Passengers are edgy and adventurous, demanding exceptional concentration and serious vocal technique. Purists may call this medley a melee, but we think Debbie Harry has a heart of class.